


The fury and the fate

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Land of a Thousand Fables, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-06 11:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and ground his molars, and hoped to any god that was listening that the beast would not notice the other way his threats were affecting him.“Self-defence. I understand. And with that in mind, I expect you to understand why I am doing this, why you must…” The beast paused, its face slackening with realisation. “…Ah.”Regis is late to Geralt's rescue, which has various unforeseen consequences.





	The fury and the fate

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a piece of artwork by Biblichor on tumblr! 
> 
> WARNING: some slight dub-con in the beginning, though it's pretty quickly established as consensual.
> 
> EDIT: made some changes to address some crit! Hope it makes the story easier to follow.

Geralt’s boots kicked up dust as he turned in a slow circle. The Beast of Beauclair had fled from his sight and merged with the shadows cloaking the furthest stretches of the storage facility. Even with his pupils fully expanded, he wasn’t able to see enough to locate him, and nor could he accurately determine his location through hearing. The hiss of movement and the soft, rhythmic panting of the beast rattled through his ears, but the beast was moving so fast that it didn’t appear to be coming from any one place.

He raised his sword above his head, ready to protect himself should the beast come at him from above, and was blindsided when it instead struck out at him from behind. He turned, but it wasn’t fast enough; the razor-sharp claws split the chain mail on his abdomen and sent him slamming into the ground, jarring the back of his head against the cement. His sword went skittering out of his grip and before he could recover enough to even think about retrieving it, the beast was upon him again, holding him to the ground with its mass.

Claws splayed across his chest, biting into what armour had survived the beast’s initial onslaught.

“ _Strong_ , aren’t you, Witcher,” murmured the beast. Geralt tried to reach up, to pummel his way free, only to have his wrists caught in one hand and pressed firmly to the cement, out of the way. “And stubborn," added the beast as he drew his claws down Geralt's chest plate. It was unnatural, chilling, how easily they slid through his defences, as though cutting through butter. A little push and the beast would pierce his chest. The thought sent his heart thundering against his rib cage. 

“So your heart beats just like any other humans." The beast gazed down at him. “Albeit, faster and heavier, now that you are panicked. I can feel them even through this.” The cool tips of its claws touched Geralt’s skin. Geralt involuntarily sucked in a breath. “I have, unfortunately, become adept at ceasing such beats, and there seems so little reason to let you live after you hunted my dear bruxa friend down like an animal.”

“Wouldn’t be dead if they didn’t try to kill me first,” Geralt spat. When he lifted a knee to kick the beast off, he didn’t expect it to achieve much, and he was right; it merely caused the beast to settle between his legs, which was the last place Geralt wanted him to be right now.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and ground his molars, and hoped to any god that was listening that the beast would not notice the other way his threats were affecting him.

“Self-defence. I understand. And with that in mind, I expect you to understand why I am doing this, why you must…” The beast paused, his face slackening with realisation. “…Ah.”

Geralt swallowed and the vampire moved, leg brushing against the bulge in Geralt’s trousers.

“You witcher’s are as lecherous as people claim.”

“If you’re going to kill me,” said Geralt through clenched teeth. “Get on with it.”

The claws receded just a touch, enough that Geralt could feel cool night air on his skin through the slits in his armour instead of the tips of the beast’s talons.

“I think,” began the vampire, his voice sibilant and dark. “There needn’t be any more bloodshed tonight. You can be taught a much less permanent lesson.” The beast’s thigh ground hard against him and Geralt choked back a startled cry, eyes flying open. The beast peered down at him. “Humility, witcher, is a quality I find most humans lack. You should know when you are outmatched and unneeded.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt hissed, unable to think of a better comeback while the vampire was rocking against his arousal. His heartbeat was slowing down instead of accelerating, and he knew the vampire could hear it, could hear his eagerness in every laboured thud. It was a small consolation that the beast couldn't hear his thoughts, too.

“At a later date, perhaps. This will suffice for now.”

The claws descended and cut him free of his trousers, then retracted into fingernails as the beast raised his hand to his lips and licked a sloppy line up the leather of his glove. With his palm dripping, he reached into the tattered remains of Geralt armour and coiled his fingers around his cock. Geralt threw his head back, thumping his skull into the cement as the vampire squeezed and stroked at his cock with surprisingly soft, nimble fingers. When the beast rubbed hard at his frenulum, it was enough to make his legs shake.

“You look quite good like this,” the beast murmured appreciatively. “Such a shame we could not have met under different circumstances. I would have extended an invitation to my pack to such a vision.”

Geralt didn’t have anything to add to the conversation, and nor would he have, had he access to his voice. He merely let out a short, stuttering groan and let his jaw hang open. It was hard to keep ones focus on resistance when something felt so _good_. 

“Unwinding before me,” said the vampire, amused. “And so easily.”

It was true, and Geralt was finding it hard to care as the vampire caught a dollop of precum on his fingers and used it to ease his path. He could feel the vampire’s own arousal against his thigh, cool and heavy despite the fabric covering it. His mind provided flashes of what it might look like, what it might feel like, how it would taste, how it would throb inside him. The heady scent of arousal was thick between them, emanating particularly hard from Geralt, and Geralt knew the beast could smell it just as well as he.

Gaze dark and wanting, the beast leaned down and nosed beneath his jaw, licking a long line up his straining tendons and tonguing his thrumming pulse point. Geralt just couldn’t help himself – he twisted into the beast’s mouth, trying to provoke a bite. The vampire laughed against his skin.

“A witcher with a thing for danger.” The beast clucked his tongue and scraped his jagged teeth over Geralt’s neck in a way that sent electric shocks racing down Geralt's abdomen. “One would think you get enough of that in your job.” Apparently not, because Geralt couldn’t think of the last time he’d been this mindlessly aroused.

“C’mon,” he mumbled. “C’mon. Get on with it.” The beast was more than happy to oblige his pleas. 

When he peaked, he did so with his hips rising into those final, delectable strokes and bellowing out a cry that bounced off the stone walls. He came into the beast’s hand, messily and hard, then fell back to the cement dazed and deprived of any lingering desire to fight.

In a manner that could almost be interpreted as affectionate, the vampire released his wrists and stroked his cheek, smiling wide enough to unveil the sharp ends of his fangs. “Should we meet again, I hope you will be just as pleasant company-“

“Dettlaff!”

They both jumped to attention upon hearing the shout. Geralt was momentarily choked by thick black vapours as the beast made its escape, and it was only as a dizzied afterthought that he covered himself to preserve some dignity from whoever had come to his rescue. Not that he had wanted or needed rescuing.

“Dettlaff,” the man called again. Softer, this time, and Geralt realised that he recognised the voice. The smell, too - but, no, it couldn’t be. They were dead. "Dettlaff, please - I can help!" the man finished feebly, stepping into a thin streak of moonlight crawling in from the door. 

Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again.

It was Regis. Though his hair was shorter and he was thinner, he was unmistakable.

Regis’ shoulders slumped when it became apparent Dettlaff wasn’t going to return. With a sigh, he turned to face Geralt, looking him up and down before approaching. “Yes, Geralt,” he said softly, gravely. “It’s me.”

These were not the circumstances Geralt would have liked to have a reunion under, but he was glad and elated regardless. He fell silent for a long moment, drinking in the appearance of his friend, forgetting briefly what had just happened between himself and the Beast of Beauclair.

“Regis…” He moved to rise, before remembering the state of his trousers and returning to the cement, curling his legs up so Regis wouldn’t get an eyeful. Regis did not comment on his state of undress, but removed his outer layer of clothing and extended it to Geralt. Geralt shrugged it on. A bit of a squeeze, but it covered what needed to be covered.

“Are you… how?” He knew he sounded like a fool, but he couldn’t find the right words, the right question. 

Regis dropped to his hunches before him, offering a hand. “All in good time, Geralt. Come. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

They exchanged few words on their way to Regis’ hovel. It was a short ride, both of them sitting atop Roach, and Geralt still couldn’t think what to say now that he had gathered his wits. Regis had no doubt seen the state of his trousers and smelt the arousal and the culmination of it. He would know what had happened. He had, however, not said a single word to acknowledge it, and probably wouldn’t broach the topic unless Geralt indicated he wanted to talk about it (which he didn’t).

Regis provided him with new trousers and a comfortable, if tight shirt. They sat down in the depths of Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetery and Regis explained to him exactly who Dettlaff was, providing Geralt with several opportunities to explain what had happened between them. Geralt didn’t take a single one.

Regis, polite man that he was, did not probe any further, though it was clear to Geralt that he wanted to.

The moment he had the opportunity to do so, Geralt found a quiet corner and masturbated to the memory of the beast. He felt fucking ridiculous, having not masturbated in such a shameful, furtive manner since his youth, but it was either this or wandering around Toussaint with a hard on.

* * *

The Beast of Beauclair – or Dettlaff, rather – did not grace Geralt with his presence again until an impromptu dinner hosted by the aristocratic Orianna. Despite several other seats being vacant, Dettlaff adopted the chair across from Geralt and stared unabashedly at him. After how their last encounter had gone, Geralt felt it necessary to demonstrate caution during the ensuing conversation. He couldn’t be sure Dettlaff wouldn’t act out, that this wasn’t a ploy, though he grew moderately less vigilant as the night progressed and Dettlaff expressed a desire for both forgiveness and help.

The attention Dettlaff paid him was excessive. Very few times throughout the dinner did the vampire look away. He stared at him, enthralled, covetous, and Geralt shifted uncomfortably in his chair when that started to have an effect on him. Not the sort of effect it _should_ have had on him, mind you; instead of elevating his discomfort, it was making him, of all damned things, _aroused_. He was glad there were no sorceress around to listen to his thoughts, because he was thinking some truly base things.

When Orianna offered to bring more wine, Geralt saw it as an opportunity. “Let me go,” he said, standing out of his chair. “Wanna help, Dettlaff? You’ve lived here a while, so I’m sure you know your wines better than me.”

Regis cast them a curious look, but did not intervene.

Dettlaff didn’t hesitate to rise after him. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Regis’ gaze followed them down the hallway and Geralt suspected he was listening close as Geralt pulled Dettlaff into a quiet corner.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked coolly. Considering how their last encounter had ended, he thought it a grand show of self-control that he didn’t snarl. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I am no danger to the duchess, nor you,” said Dettlaff, untroubled by Geralt’s hostility. He made no attempt to remove Geralt’s hands from his person, though he could have done so with ease. “You’ve no reason to fear,” he added.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Geralt. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I came to seek understanding and to apologise. Unless you do not believe you need an apology?”

“I _don’t_ ,” said Geralt, unthinking, and he was more than a little frustrated with his response. He stepped out of Dettlaff’s vicinity and strode in an anxious circle, burning off the excess of energy Dettlaff's presence had managed to generate. He was sure Dettlaff could smell and hear the effect his presence was having on him.

“Meaning?”

“I,” said Geralt, stopping to point an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t need an apology. Not for that.”

Dettlaff tipped his head in apparent confusion. “Elaborate, witcher,” he pressed. “Would an apology from me not suffice, or do you wish for something else?”

It took Geralt several seconds of pacing to decide upon his answer. He grabbed Dettlaff by the lapels of his coat and pressed ravenous kisses upon his mouth, then bit at his lips and chin and jaw, leaving deep, painful marks because they were what Dettlaff deserved. The man gave as good as he got, turning their bodies so Geralt was the one with his back pressed to a wall and dragging Geralt’s doublet out of the way to place kisses along the hollow of his collarbone. Dettlaff’s hands were rough, demanding, sliding beneath his clothes and groping at the softest, most vulnerable parts of him, and Geralt loved every little bit of it.

“Rhena,” the man murmured against his skin, voice soft with guilt, and Geralt considered stopping, then, but had that thought banished as the vampire wound his hand tight in his hair and tugged his head back. Teeth grazed the pale column of his neck.

“It’s Geralt,” he growled, twisting his fingers into Dettlaff’s back.

The vampire licked a long stripe up his neck and whispered into his wet skin, “Geralt.” And then again, against his jaw, “Geralt.” Once more, over his ear, prompting a shiver, “Geralt.”

It took them fifteen minutes to ‘find wine’. When they returned, Regis wasn’t the only one casting them curious looks, and Geralt made an effort to neaten his hair before he sat back down. He failed to notice that Dettlaff had popped two of his buttons until long after the dinner had ended.

The vampire accosted him before they were due to part ways. “I will remember tonight, witcher,” Dettlaff murmured to him, sliding past. “I would not be opposed to this continuing. Keep that in mind.”

Geralt did keep it in mind. Kept on thinking it over for the rest of the night, in fact.

* * *

Courtesy of Dettlaff and Regis, the battle at Dun Tynne passed swiftly. They were such efficient killers that Geralt might as well have kept his sword sheathed. He barely managed to cut down more than three men before the rest had been dealt with.

The moment they reached the building in which Syanna was being kept, Dettlaff surged ahead of him and Regis, leaping up the stairs and breaking down the door to Syanna’s ‘prison’. When he and Regis caught up, Geralt only needed set eyes on Syanna to recognise the situation for what it truly was. The fact Dettlaff’d had enough time to hold his ‘Rhena’, to apologise to her and receive reassurances in return, made it harder to unveil that Rhena and Syanna were one in the same. Geralt knew how volatile Dettlaff could be, and so delivered the news with as much tact as he could manage (which, admittedly, wasn’t a whole lot; diplomatic speech wasn’t his strong suit).

He wasn’t surprised when Syanna ended up against a wall with a hand wrapped tight around her throat, but after all the damage she had wrought, he only made a meagre effort to intervene, which Regis stopped with a raised hand. Regis didn’t move either, despite being wholly capable of tearing Syanna out of Dettlaff’s grasp. They hadn’t needed to act, however, as Dettlaff recovered his senses before he could inflict any serious damage and demanded that Syanna come to him in three days, or he would raze down Beauclair. Then he was gone.

When the duchess arrived on the scene, she tasked him with finding the beast and absconded with her sister. Geralt had barely managed to get a word in edgewise.

On their way out of the premises, he took dragging steps, delaying the inevitable and fruitless task of searching for Dettlaff. He knew if Dettlaff didn’t want to be found, he wasn’t going to be found. Being able to turn into a fog ensured there wouldn't be any clues to follow. In three days, he would have to return to Henrietta empty handed, assuming Dettlaff hadn't begun his assault by then.

“Any idea how to go about finding him?” Geralt asked Regis wearily.

Regis sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid we exhausted our leads finding him the first time, and knowing I am in your company, I imagine he wouldn’t go anywhere I know of.” A crow fluttered down from a rooftop, landing smoothly upon Regis’ outstretched arm. “However,” continued Regis. “We need not use only our eyes. Should anything be found, my friends shall send me a twitter.”

“And what will you be doing, in the mean time?” asked Geralt.

“Searching the places I know of regardless,” said Regis. He paused at the gate to the property, turning to Geralt. “Before I take my leave, I have some advice to impart. You may hesitate to accept it, but I strongly suggest that you do.”

Geralt turned, curiosity piqued. “Yeah?”

“Dettlaff feels very alone right now, and I imagine he would not be opposed to company.” Regis glanced knowingly at a fading bruise on Geralt’s neck. “If you make yourself available, there is a good chance he will seek you out.”

“Why me over you?” asked Geralt, incredulous. “You’re his friend. I barely know him.” He knew the shape and weight of his cock, but beyond that, not much else.

“I am not the sort of company he wants. Rational company.” Regis smiled sadly. “A friend will do him no good. He needs to forget Rhena through someone else, and he has made his interest in you clear.”

“How so?” asked Geralt, tugging self-consciously at the collar of his armour.

Regis cast him a wry look. “Even if it were not _visibly_ apparent, you smell of him, and he of you, and he would not leave his scent if he did not desire to have you.”

Geralt balked; he hadn’t noticed any scent on him. “Vampires have _scent glands_?”

“In our bat forms, yes.” Regis gestured to his neck. “Right on our necks, coincidentally. But that is not the only way one can transfer scent. The mouth, for example, can-“

“Okay.” Geralt threw up his hands to prevent a spiel. “I know more than I ever wanted to know. I’ll go and… I don’t know, find a roof and look pretty." He snorted. "Hope this won't be waste of time. We're short on it."

“It’s worth trying, is it not?”

“At this point, anything is.” Thought Geralt had doubts as to how successful it would be. He would much rather spend what little time they had searching for Dettlaff… but he wouldn’t dismiss Regis’ advice. Regis had usually been right in the past.   

They parted ways and Geralt situated himself somewhere visible, but private, just on the outskirts of Beauclair. He waited. With meditation, the time passed quickly enough, though the waiting was not without its tribulations. It was hard to relax when time was running short and each passing minute was one minute wasted on sitting and twiddling his thumbs instead of conducting a search.

It turned out Regis had been right, however, as heavy palms settled over his shoulders some hours after he had seated himself in the grass.

“Has the duchess taken leave of her senses?” asked Dettlaff quietly, coming to sit down behind him, curling over Geralt's back. He spread a hand over Geralt’s clavicle, just below his medallion. “Keeping Rhena – Syanna – from me, sending you after me, when she risks so much.”

Geralt shifted, tried to turn around. Dettlaff prevented him from doing so. “Been spying?” he asked.

“Keeping track of my interests,” said Dettlaff. “Do you not agree that she is being foolish?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Geralt swallowed as Dettlaff’s palm slid up to his neck, nails catching on his throat. “What matters is that’s the duchess won’t hand Syanna over, and will be even less inclined to do it if you attack the city.”

“Go back to her, then. Tell her she must-“

“She won’t,” interrupted Geralt, and wetted his lips when Dettlaff’s hand dropped to his thigh.

“She will not listen to reason?”

“No, so you’ll have to do it instead.”

Geralt leaned back until he was pressed flush to Dettlaff’s chest. Dettlaff’s responded by sliding his chin onto Geralt's shoulder, his rough lips grazing the shell of Geralt’s ear. The strange, cool quality of his breath brought a chill to the surface of Geralt’s skin, and he was reminded explicitly that Dettlaff was not human.

“Vampires are polyamorous creatures, witcher, but Rhena – she was my mate. My primary.” Fingers found the outline of his arousal, sliding languidly around it, tracing it through the thick fabric of his trousers. “There is only one consequence for her actions. However…”

“Mm?” Geralt was getting a little distracted by the journey of Dettlaff’s hand, so tantalisingly close to skin-on-skin contact as it was. Dettlaff’s other one had slithered into his long white hair and now tugged at the silky strands, drawing his head back far enough to give Dettlaff access to the side of his neck. The vampire mouthed his next words into Geralt’s skin.

“I can come to a compromise, provided that effort is mutual.”

“What do you want the duchess to do?”

“Not the duchess. You.”

Geralt turned his head, trying to meet Dettlaff’s gaze. “What can I do?”

“You can get me access to Syanna,” said Dettlaff simply. He pressed lazy kisses to Geralt’s neck, jaw, and ear, working his way up. “She owes me an explanation. Give me that, and I will not lay siege on all the duchess holds dear.”

The air was pushed from his lungs when Dettlaff bent him over and squeezed at his arousal, his fangs pressed delicately to a throbbing vein behind his ear. Geralt swallowed, grappled with his composure, then relaxed into Dettlaff’s grip enough to take a small, shuddering breath.

“You won’t harm her?” he managed to ask.

Dettlaff made a rumbling sound deep in his chest. “That depends entirely on her _excuse_.”

“There will be a fight,” murmured Geralt. “Should you decide to attack.”

“Understood,” said Dettlaff, giving him another mind-numbing squeeze. A groan forced its way past Geralt’s teeth.

He had been anticipating and was quite excited by the prospect of receiving another hand job (thought he wouldn’t have been opposed to something that required more exertion), but Dettlaff’s hand retreated without giving him so much as a stroke. Dettlaff dragged his hand up over his thighs, his stomach, his chest, neck, and settled it just under his chin.

“Accompany me to Mère-Lachaiselongue. We will retrieve Regis and begin our search for dear Syanna. I’m sure, by now, he has uncovered a lead.”

“Sounds good,” murmured Geralt, twisting around as Dettlaff finally withdrew and stood. Ignoring the ache between his legs, Geralt rose up after him and gestured at Roach, who had been tied to a tree a short distance away. “Flying or riding?”

Dettlaff regarded Roach with curiosity. “I do not often have reason to ride a horse. Let’s ride.”

Dettlaff misted his way into the saddle rather than hoisting himself in, making himself comfortable behind Geralt by winding his arms around Geralt's waist. It was apparent by the way he held himself that he had never shared a saddle with someone before, but Geralt had ridden in far worse conditions and with far clingier people (Dandelion, for example, whose fingers turned into hooks the moment Geralt passed a trot).

The ride to Regis’ residence was smooth and filled with idle chatter, during which Geralt found out Dettlaff had visited Zerrikania some years ago and that there were were indeed striped horses roaming those lands. For someone who preferred to spend most of his time in caves, among lesser vampires, Dettlaff had nonetheless travelled further than most, exploring reaches of the world Geralt could only dream of visiting.  

“Perhaps,” he said during a lull in their conversation. “You could accompany me when next I feel a need to travel.” He touched his cheek to Geralt’s back. “I had intended to ask R… Syanna ...” A pause. “But we never did find the time. Perhaps that is for the best.”

Dettlaff’s voice trembled. Geralt slipped the reins into one hand so he could pat Dettlaff’s knee. “Much as I'd like that, give yourself a few weeks before deciding you want to take me somewhere. We’d be spending every waking moment together. Might find out that’s not something you particularly enjoy.”

Dettlaff sighed. “That would be wise, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Geralt glanced back at him. “You can help me in the garden, when this is over.”

Dettlaff appeared confused. “The garden?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“Because we should start small, and menial shit is what you do when you want to get to know someone.” Geralt resumed watching the road. They weren’t far from their destination. “Not that the groping isn’t appreciated. Just a flimsy basis for a-” Uncertain of what word he should use, he shrugged and flapped a hand.

“Mate,” Dettlaff provided.

“Right. Mate.” Though the prospect of being someones 'mate' was by no means unpleasant, it was a label that would take some getting used to.

When they reached the cemetary, Regis wasn’t home. But his birds were, and they would undoubtedly report their arrival to Regis shortly. 

They situated themselves on a marble grave and resumed their conversation. Dettlaff told him of the fascinating places one could find in the south-eastern part of the continent, while Geralt offered an abridged version of his meeting with Téa, Véa, and Borch Three Jackdaws. 

They didn’t have to wait long before Regis came striding up the eastern-most path. “You’ll be wanting to see the girl, I gather?” he asked Dettlaff. He didn’t wait for a reply, ushering both of them off the grave and toward Roach. “I have a vague idea of where she might be.”

“Guessing you didn’t spend your time searching,” said Geralt, allowing himself to be herded to Roach's side.

“I did, initially,” said Regis. “But I did deviate from my intended path to pursue some… curiosities.” He ran a hand up Roach’s flank as he passed Geralt, heading back the way he had come. “We must hurry to town, to the Ducal Palace. I have on good authority there is a particular room we should investigate.”

“Whose?” asked Dettlaff. He didn’t join Geralt in the saddle, this time.

“The name won’t mean anything to you.” He nodded to Geralt. “But you, Geralt, know of Damien de la Tour.”

“Unfortunately,” muttered Geralt as he hoisted himself into Roach's saddle, sliding his feet into the stirrups. “I’ll meet you two there.”

Regis and Dettlaff trailed alongside him for a few minutes as long streaks of intermingling red and black fog, then surged ahead and out of view. Geralt gripped the reins and pushed Roach into a swift gallop, intent on getting to their destination before the early risers started to amble out into Beauclair’s streets. The sooner they found Syanna, the easier it would be to remain undiscovered. He didn’t like his chances of ending up at the gallows if they were found. Not a problem for Dettlaff and Regis, who would survive a decapitation with ease, but Geralt wouldn’t be so fortunate.

There remained a thin cover of darkness when Geralt arrived at Beauclair Palace. In an hour, perhaps less, the sun would rise beyond the mountains and they would have little hope of escaping the premises unseen, but Geralt didn’t expect this to take too long.

He left Roach to graze at a feeding troth and hurried up to the entrance gate of the palace. Dettlaff and Regis were waiting for him, deep in conversation. He didn’t manage to catch a full sentence before they noticed him and waved him over.

“So,” said Geralt, peering past them and at the winding path into the palace grounds. “Where are we headed, specifically.”

“The palace playroom,” answered Regis. When Regis started moving, Dettlaff and Geralt followed at his heels.

“The palace playroom?” asked Geralt, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “The duchess keeping her in a dollhouse?”

“Let us hope not, as that is not a very effective means of captivity,” said Regis wryly. “Which is to say, I do not know. We’ll have to see for ourselves.” He stepped into a shadowed corner while a guard strode past, yawning and rubbing his eyes. The man failed to notice their little company.

Dettlaff remained silent. While it was perfectly normal for Dettlaff to remain silent, being something of a reticent man, he was the sort of silent that suggested he was sweltering in his own – very likely unpleasant – thoughts. Geralt resolved to keep a very close eye on him. He could tell by the way Regis periodically glanced back at them that Regis had come to a similar resolution.

It was fortunate Regis seemed to know where to go, as Geralt hadn’t the faintest idea where the ‘play room’ might be located. He guided them up to a door at which two guards were stationed and gestured for them to stand back, then approached the men and engaged them in conversation. After a few minutes, their eyelids began to droop, and they sunk slowly to the ground and began to snore.

“Huh.” Geralt came up behind him. “Forgot you could do that.”

“It's not an ability I like to use,” said Regis. “But desperate times…”

Geralt nodded and stepped over the inert bodies of the guards. There didn’t appear to be anyone guarding the stairwell, but Geralt strode forth on silent feet regardless, pressing close to the wall as he ascended the stairs, hiding in the shadows. The building, they shortly realised, was completely empty, though there was no doubt Syanna had been here; Geralt could smell her perfume in the air, faint and cloying. If she’d been moved, it couldn't have been that long ago.

Dettlaff did his own sniffing while bowed over a table adorned with plush toys and miniature tableware, gliding his fingers over the worn ear of a rabbit. Geralt decided not to disturb him.

“Either Damien gave you false information, or he’s not as well informed as he would like,” said Geralt. “Unless you think she’s hiding in a drawer?”

Regis waved his hand. “We should at least have a look around.”

There wasn’t much to see: assorted toys scattered throughout the room, some broken and tattered, others unblemished aside from a thin layer of dust; an ornate carpet, under which Geralt found nothing; a painting, which unveiled a key that unlocked the wardrobe, and finally, a desk with a small cluster of books sitting neatly on an attached shelf. Among the books, only one stood out as worth looking at.

“What the-“ He examined a small, leather bound book with straps holding it shut. “Found a notebook. 'Properly of Isabelle de Roquefort, Court Governess.’” Both Regis and Dettlaff looked over. “The notes of Syanna and Anna Henrietta's governess. When they were little." It was a curiosity, nothing more, and Geralt had been prepared to merely skim through the contents before Dettlaff came up to stand before him.

“Read it,” said Dettlaff.

Regis came to stand at Dettlaff's side. “I’m not sure it will help, but I suppose there’s no harm in leafing through. Go on, Geralt.”

Two against one. Geralt sighed and flicked through for a suitable page. “Let’s see…” He dragged a finger along the yellowing pages. “Syanna gave me a drawing today-“

“Charming,” said Regis, and Dettlaff concurred with a grunt. Presumably concurred; it was hard to tell.

“Of freshly decapitated bodies covered in blood,” he finished, glancing up to gauge their reactions. Dettlaff, unsurprisingly, was the most visibly startled, while Regis’ brow merely knitted.

“Perhaps not so much,” said Regis.

“That does not sound like her,” murmured Dettlaff, mostly to himself.

Geralt proceeded once they appeared to have recovered from their shock. “I asked her why ever she would draw such a thing. Her Highness claimed it was a rendering of nightmares which have plagued her for as long as she can remember. Syanna does wake up screaming nearly every night, save when she shares a bed with Anarietta.” He cleared his throat, looking up at his companions. “Curse of the black sun. Supposedly girls afflicted by it had horrible dreams. Kind of horrible that made some of them go mad.”

“This curse,” said Dettlaff, regarding the journal with growing distaste. “Is it real?”

It took Geralt a moment to decide to shake his head. “I know what you’re really asking. Her betraying you wasn’t involuntary. She’s in control of her faculties; that much is clear.” 

“Are you certain-“

“Yes. Couldn't tell you if the things people claim about the curse have any basis in reality, but I do know Syanna isn't mentally deficient in any way.” He turned to the next page of the journal. “There’s another one here, about the girls fighting.” 

“Let’s hear it,” encouraged Regis.

“The girls quarrelled today. I must note rather sadly they did not behave as befits future ladies. The incident devolved into fisticuffs. Anna Henrietta was first to strike her sister. Syanna gave back as good as she'd gotten. By the time I separated them, Anarietta had lost two teeth. She ran off to complain to her parents. His grace the duke refused to believe my version of events. He laid all the blame of Syanna and vowed to punish the little one harshly…”

Dettlaff had begun to pace, visibly perturbed. Whatever image he had built up of Syanna in his mind, this was not it.

“Anarietta did her best to have her sister's sentence commuted, but the Duke and Duchess proved unbending.”

“I do not understand this,” said Dettlaff, his tone bordering on agitated. “She had a witness. There was no reason not to believe her.”

Regis clucked his tongue. “Once labelled a black sheep, it is a difficult reputation to shed.”

“None of this was divulged to me.” Dettlaff gave a short, bitter chuckle. “Given that I did not even know her real name, I should not be surprised. Alas…” He gestured to Geralt. “Please, continue.”

“You sure you want to hear more of this?” asked Geralt.

“I would not be encouraging you if I didn’t.” It took Dettlaff fisting his hands a few times to recover his equanimity. Though his posture was still rigid, there was no longer a bitter note in his voice, nor were the lines on his temple as deep. “I will be alright.”

Geralt adjusted his grip on the book, then proceeded. “Today I accompanied the girls for the first time to the Land of a Thousand Fables. We spent half the day there. First we played with Thumbelina, then with Barbarossa, who proved quite the charmer for a brigade and pirate.”

Regis interrupted, as he was wont to do. “I'm beginning to suspect Isabealla de Roquefort wrote in her diary after taking a powerful hallucinogenic. Cannabis rudelaris, for instance, or...”

Geralt raised a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t interrupt.”

Dettlaff snorted softly.

“I tip my cap to Master Artorius Vigo for his achievement,” Geralt read. “He has proved he has no equal in the arcane arts.”

“Wait,” interrupted Regis. “Artorius was the court mage here, a specialist in illusions. Which means-“

“Regis," said Geralt, sighing. "Last warning. Stop interrupting or I’ll seat you in a corner.”

With visible reluctance, Regis closed his mouth.

“The girls told me if I ever wished to visit alone, I need but crack open 'The Land of a Thousand Fables' and utter out loud the incantation 'Expecto Ludum!'"

Regis, seemingly unable to help himself, spoke again. “A book as the key to an illusion.” Both his and Dettlaff’s gaze rose to the books being kept on the desk. “My, my, this grows more interesting by the minute.”

“Indeed,” said Dettlaff, stroking his chin as approached the desk, reaching for the bookshelf above it. “Is there anything else worth reading in there?” He pulled each book off the shelf and examined their cover.

“Not likely to be there,” said Geralt, turning the page. “They’ll have wanted to hide it. Try the cupboard. It was the only thing locked in the room.”

Dettlaff nodded and did as Geralt suggested.

“Now, hm.” Geralt turned another page, careful not to tear the worn paper. “Here's another one: mages sent by the Conclave arrived today. They came to examine Syanna. I cannot know what conclusions they drew, but his Grace now seems clearly upset.”

“Curse of the black sun,” said Regis solemnly. “It was no doubt then that she was diagnosed with the symptoms.”

“Assuming it is real,” murmured Dettlaff, wiping dust off the cupboard shelves as he searched, seeming to want to keep his hands occupied. Geralt was starting to see why he’d taken up making toys as a hobby.

“Just as likely an unfortunate label,” said Geralt. “There’s more: I dared ask the Duke what would become of the girl. He did not reply.”

Dettlaff’s mouth twitched. He offered no comment.

Geralt moved to the next page. “I tutored the girls in Nilfgaardian today. Syanna applies herself so, though she has great difficulty memorising new vocabulary. Lady Anarietta seems more gifted in this regard, yet also prone to impish behaviour. When she thought me out of earshot, she called me a 'bloede kusse'. She and Syanna laughed so hard they almost choked.” Geralt paused, frowning. “Hmm. Bloede is ‘damned’ or ‘cursed’. What’s kusse?”

Regis cleared his throat and stepped forward to answer, while Dettlaff glanced pointedly away. Whatever the word was, it must have been quite the dirty one.

“In the melodious tongue of our none too friendly neighbours to the south, the word describes the many-petaled flower that blooms in the place we so unmelodiously call the crotch.”

Geralt was actually a little impressed. He was sure, given their penchant for impishness, that the girls had sought the word out by themselves.

“Right.” He closed the book, returning it to its place on the table. “Realise this might sound improbable, but maybe, just maybe, Anna Henrietta tossed Syanna into that illusion.”

“Not impossible,” said Regis. “She would be safe there, and isolated.”

“We should at least check,” piqued in Dettlaff. He plucked a book out of the wardrobe and Geralt noted as he brought it over that it wasn’t as dusty as the other items in the room. “I believe this is the book to which the journal referred.”

“Sure looks like it,” said Geralt while examining the unicorn on the front. For a book forged by a mage and owned by princesses, it had a surprisingly minimalistic cover, but no one would be mistaking it as anything other than a children's book. 

The straps holding the book shut held fast against his attempts to wrench it open. After a few seconds of watching Geralt struggle, Dettlaff took the book from him, snapped it open in a single movement, and handed it back. “Thanks,” Geralt muttered, more embarrassed than grateful.

The two vampires squeezed in as he prepared to speak the incantation. “You two ready for this?" A beat. "Good. Expecto Ludum.”

Artorius Vigo had probably intended the gold letters floating up from the book to elicit feelings of awe. Geralt was merely bewildered. They drifted to the height of his face, sparkling, twinkling, surrounded by a gold dust that prompted Geralt to squint his eyes, and proceeded to flash such a bright white that he was momentarily deprived of sight. When it returned, he was no longer in the play room.

He could hear, smell, and see forest surrounding him, thick and lush and vast. Crickets chirped and birds sang. He took a deep breath in and found the air warm and humid.

“Regis?” he asked, glancing about in search of the man. “Dettlaff?”

A groan, and then an answer, “I'm here.”

He turned to find Dettlaff struggling his way out of the clutches of a bush.

“Where’s Regis, then?” he asked, turning in a slow circle in hopes of spotting Regis among the trees.

“I don’t recall the light reaching him.” Having extracted himself from the wildlife, Dettlaff brushed down his coat and clambered up to Geralt. “Likely, he did not stand close enough.” Dettlaff twisted his lips. “Perhaps that is for the best. Regis thrives on his lonesome.”

“He thrives regardless of his company.” Geralt took an unsteady step forward, dirt crunching underfoot. He was still adjusting to the change in terrain. “Land of a Thousand Fables,” he murmured, taking in the beauty of his surroundings. “Incredible.”

“It is impressive,” agreed Dettlaff, with considerably less awe. He probably didn’t think much of human invention.

Geralt stepped into a clearing. “Looks like a path." A path of gold, strangely enough. He couldn't remember what children's tale that was from. "Might take us where we need to go.”

“Or closer to it,” said Dettlaff, striding along at his side. “This is all an illusion?”

“Mhm. Nehaleni eye I have’s trembling like crazy.”

“A witcher tool, I gather.”

Geralt swatted away insects that drifted lazily into him. “Witch tool, actually. But as it’s currently being used, yes.”

The gold path stretched deep into the forest and led them up a hill and past a waterfall, then through a crowd of small, hysterically giggling creatures that ran at the sight of them. Dettlaff wrinkled his nose. Geralt didn’t particularly like them either.

They crossed a bridge, on which was an archespore (surprising for a land intended to entertain children), and beyond that they found another bridge and paused simultaneously at the bellowing yell of a young woman.

“Syanna,” murmured Dettlaff. He was gone within seconds, streaming in the direction of her voice as a black fog, too fast to catch up to. Geralt cursed and hurried after him.

The hunched and withered figure that had been crowding Syanna was thrown aside so violently by Dettlaff that she ceased moving upon thudding to the ground, her cauldron splashing molten gold across the dirt and grass. Geralt side-stepped her motionless form to join Dettlaff and Syanna in front of a row of stone ovens. From one of them, wailing could be heard.

“What are you doing here?” Syanna asked, stumbling back until her calves struck the stone. She leapt forward to avoid being burned. “How?”

“That should not be what concerns you,” said Dettlaff, his voice cold and dangerous as he crept around Syanna, like a feline examining its prey. “I have discovered some curious things about you, _princess_. I have uncovered your lies.”

“I didn’t-“ she began, and Geralt could hear her heart thumping wildly.

He strode forward, hand fisted around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t want to use it on Dettlaff, but he would, if forced. He couldn’t let harm come to the duchess’s sister.

“Dettlaff,” he said, as a warning.

The man barely spared him a glance. “Tell me, Syanna. That which bound us – was it all a ruse?” She tried to touch his face, to elicit leniency; he caught her by the wrist before contact could be made. “Answer me.”

“No, I… I did like you, initially,” said Syanna, her words halting. “Believe me Dettlaff, please. I did not befriend you merely to use you.”

“Then why did you? Why make a monster of me, when you know so well what that feels like?”

Syanna grimaced and turned her face away so neither Dettlaff nor Geralt could see it. Geralt stood his ground, though he observed them closely.

“If you had asked me,” continued Dettlaff, his voice softening. “I may have obliged, provided you had good reason for their deaths-“

“It was justified!” Syanna interrupted, her head snapping back up, full of rage and loathing. “They were _monsters_. Disgusting, loathsome monsters who deserved the deaths you gave them!”

“Me? It was you who forced my hand,” Dettlaff hissed, tightening his grip enough to make the bones in Syanna’s wrist audibly creak. “But…” His fingers slackened enough to maintain a hold, but avoid causing Syanna any further discomfort. “I will take your word that their deaths were just, as a final gift. I will believe them to be the monsters you say they are. The last bit of trust I will extend you.”

Syanna didn’t seem to know what to say. She swallowed, loud enough that even Geralt could hear.

"Have you anything further to add?" asked Dettlaff.

"No, I... thank you." Syanna held her head high. "That is all."

"You are welcome, Syanna. However, retribution _is_ still necessary.” He spoke so softly, so serenely that Geralt couldn’t have anticipated what he did next. It happened faster than even witcher eyes could follow – talons cut through the air and Syanna gasped and slumped in Dettlaff’s grip, bleeding sluggishly from a jagged wound in her torso.

Geralt knew immediately that there was nothing he could do for her. It was apparent by sight alone that her heart had been ravaged and her spine severed. Her death had been fast, merciful. As angry and heartbroken as Dettlaff might have been, he clearly hadn’t wished to see her suffer.

Dettlaff didn’t relinquish his grip despite the blood seeping steadily into his clothes, turning the fabric slick and dark. He stared down with arbour, despite everything. "Goodbye, Syanna."

Geralt released the hilt of his sword, dropping his hand back to his side. There was no point in drawing it now. He wouldn’t get into a fight over a corpse; there was no point and it would only end in more pain. “Thought you said you wouldn’t harm her.”

Heaving Syanna into his arms, Dettlaff cradled the corpse to his chest. “You can be angry at me later. Right now, a child is in need of your assistance.” He tilted his head toward the single functioning oven, which had begun billowing thick clouds of grey smoke. “Hurry.”

There didn’t seem much point in helping an illusion. On the other hand, if Syanna had been imploring the witch to free the boy, he must have been pertinent to an escape.

Heaving a sigh, Geralt released the hatch on the oven and threw the door open, reaching inside to pull out a lightly singed boy in a green tunic and a ridiculous feathered hat. By the looks of the flames crawling up the inside of the oven, he was fortunate to have only burned a couple of holes into his clothes.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you kind sir!” The boy cried, wiping soot and sweat off his face with shaking hands. With how realistic a depiction of a child he was, Geralt almost felt guilty for considering letting him burn. The boy sniffed and coughed and beamed up at them. “Oh, I am so glad! When I heard the witch crowing, I was certain-“ A gasp. He stumbled his way over to Dettlaff, fingers slapped over his lips. “Oh no! The witch got Syanna!”

Neither he nor Dettlaff attempted to correct him.

“Yeah,” said Geralt, pushing the oven door shut with a foot. He didn’t want to find out what would happen if he left it open and it set the forest alight. “Mind telling us what she wanted from you? Guessing it had something to do with her getting out of here, and she could really use a look at by a medic.” Or a coroner.

The boy jumped from foot to foot as he surveyed Syanna’s slack features. “Oh, she is in such a bad way. There's so much blood.” He sniffed and cleaned his soot-streaked palms on his tights. “She wanted the beans, but Anna Henrietta ordered them scattered across the lands.”

“The beans?” Dettlaff cast him a questioning look.

“From a children’s tale,” said Geralt. Dettlaff continued to gaze at him, but he offered no explanation. Time was of the essence. “What exactly do the beans do?”

“Create a stalk, of course! A stalk up which you can climb, to the giant’s castle.”

“And in the giant’s castle…?”

“Is an exit.” The boy continued to watch Syanna with concern. “I don’t know where the beans are or I would tell you, but the Boy Who Cried Wolf should be able to help! He’s just down the path. You’ll hear him before you see him.” His bottom lip quivered. “Please make sure Miss Syanna gets help. We’ve been so lonely here, and it was nice to have her return at last.”

“We will, kid,” lied Geralt, and not very well, but the kid appeared to believe him regardless.

It turned out retrieving the beans was far more complicated than the green-clad boy had indicated. Not only had the Boy Who Cried Wolf provided cryptic information that he and Dettlaff had to discuss at length in order to understand (Dettlaff had, fortunately, encountered _some_ fairy tales through creating toys for children and was able to fill in a few gaps in Geralt's knowledge base), but they hadn’t the faintest idea where they were supposed to go, courtesy of their guide being dead. Geralt ended up having to pay a little girl selling alcohol and fisstech to draw them up a rough map.

As a small mercy, Syanna’s body remained warm despite how far they trudged through the lands, still sluggishly leaking blood long after clotting should have started. Apparently time in this land moved at a trickle, and so did the steady decomposition of a corpse, which would explain the well-preserved bodies of infiltrators they came upon on their path.

The first two beans were the easiest to recover. Kill some pigs, climb a tower – things Geralt had done before, and things Dettlaff found incredibly easy. There were tribulations, but nothing they couldn’t handle. It wasn’t until the third bean that they encountered trouble they couldn’t overcome through the application of sword or claws.

“Like I said,” said the Big Bad Wolf, his head lounged on the cobblestone path leading up to Little Red Riding Hood’s residence. His breath stank of alcohol. “I exist to play a part in a fairy tale. You aren’t going to get the bean without playing along.”

“And how do we do that when you’ve killed the star of the play?” asked Geralt, folding his arms.

“Good question,” said the wolf as he nosed his way into the crook of his arm. “And I’m under no obligation to answer it, so sod off!”

The Big Bad Wolf began to feign snoring, at which point they abandoned him to peer into the well. Dettlaff gingerly lowered Syanna’s corpse to the ground and folded her arms over her chest as though she was in prayer. It was strange, how much reverence and respect Dettlaff extended the body.

“We’ll play his game,” said Dettlaff, hunching down beside the well. “I shall retrieve the hood for you.”

Geralt retreated a step. “Got a bad feeling about where this is going…”

“You only need wear it for a short time,” said Dettlaff, and Geralt groaned.

“I’ll look stupid,” he groused.

“Yes, but we shall keep that between us.”

“Couldn’t you wear it? I’m a shit actor.”

“Oh, I have heard you participated in a successful play in Novigrad. I’m sure you will do fine as the girl in the red hood.” Dettlaff dropped into the well without further comment and slunk out of view. While waiting, Geralt seated himself on the ground and watched the wolf doze on the sun-warmed cobblestones.

When Dettlaff returned, it was with a sodding wet hood that he had to give several vicious squeezes to make wearable. With great reluctance, Geralt pulled the hood on. He knew he looked ridiculous, because even Dettlaff smiled at him, displaying a slither of teeth.

“Shut up,” he muttered, drawing the hood over his head with some difficulty.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Dettlaff.

Upon returning to the Big Bad Wolf, he burst out laughing at the sight of Geralt. 

“Alright, alright!” the wolf cried, rolling onto his back with his toothy maw wide open in a grin. “You’ve persuaded me! I'll do it!”

Geralt folded his arms. “Lets get this over with. Dettlaff, you’re the hunter.”

“There’s a hunter?”

“Just… fight him when we come to that part.” Geralt wasted no time jumping into his role. “Grandmother, what big teeth you ha-“

“No,” the wolf snapped, raising a paw to forestall interruption. “I start, then you say ‘but grandmamma, what big eyes you have’.”

Geralt rubbed his cheeks, hoping they weren't as red as they felt. “Fine. What comes after that?”

“Why the arms and teeth, of course. Haven’t you heard the story before?”

“Fairy tales weren’t part of the witcher school curriculum.” Geralt ignored Dettlaff’s chuckling, glad for the hood obscuring his face. “Right… grandmamma, what big eyes you-”

“Again, no! _I_ go first.”

Geralt grit his teeth. He was going to find the slaying highly enjoyable after being put through this. “Fine.”

“Granddaughter,” said the wolf in a soft, cloying voice. It was surprisingly convincing. “Come closer, sweetie.”

“But Grandmamma, what big eyes you have.”

The wolf rolled onto his knees and crawled closer. “The better to see you with, my dear.”

Geralt’s voice couldn’t have been more monotonous, but the wolf, thankfully, didn’t demand he correct himself again. “Grandmamma, what big arms you have.”

“The better to embrace you with, my dear.” The wolf started to circle.

“And grandmamma, what big teeth you have.”

Now on his hind legs, the beast rose to its full height and brandished its claws. “The better to eat you with, my dear!”

With Dettlaff’s assistance, they made quick work of the wolf. Pierced him through the torso and split open his guts, as per the story. The last bean was discovered among the wolfs entrails, in its stomach, and Geralt was a touch annoyed at the realisation he hadn’t needed wear the stupid hood at all. As he was less than pleased with Dettlaff, he made Dettlaff dig through the wolfs filth to retrieve it.

“You needn’t remove the hood,” said Dettlaff while Geralt was in the process or ripping off said hood. “You look lovely.”

For that comment, Geralt threw the hood at him hard enough to hear an audible slap as it connected.

They found an open field nearby, a perfect place to plant the beans. He created a little hole, threw them in, and tossed on a handful of dirt. 

“Perhaps we should add water?” suggested Dettlaff after several minutes of waiting. The beans hadn’t so much as sprouted a leaf.

“I only have alcohol on me.”

“Only alcohol? That does not seem wise.”

Geralt threw up a hand. “Couldn’t have anticipated my evening ending up like this. Didn’t have time to buy any.”

“Perhaps you should carry some- Geralt!” Geralt hadn’t the opportunity to reply as Dettlaff slammed bodily into him and threw him out of the way of the beanstalk, which had expanded and risen into the air with all the speed of a bird in flight. Dirt rained down on them as they lay on the ground, watching the stalk rise up, and up, and up into a fluffy mass of clouds above.

“That’s,” began Dettlaff, some awe in his voice. “Quite a bit larger than I was expecting.”

“Mhm,” grunted Geralt in agreement. He rolled onto his knees and squinted up at their rickety passage into the sky. “Going to be a pain in the ass to climb.”

“We could fly.” Dettlaff rose as well, casting a glance at the corpse of Syanna. He hunched down beside her and shrugged off his coat, wrapping her placid form in it, so gently and lovingly that Geralt felt compelled to look away, to provide him with some privacy. When he resumed watching Dettlaff, he had begun to remove his undercoat and shirt as well, folding them neatly and tucking them under Syanna’s hands.

“Any reason in particular you’re undressing? Because I really don’t think we have the time.”

A soft snort. “I’m preparing to fly. I’ve no desire to ruin my clothes.”

“Do the pants come off too?”

Dettlaff regarded him wryly. “Later, perhaps. I only needed free up my shoulder blades.”

Having seen Regis’ bat form, Geralt had a vague idea of what to expect. He was still a little startled, however, when the flesh on Dettlaff’s back split messily, bloodily, and two glossy black wings with tendrils of viscous liquid clinging onto them burst out from either shoulder blade. They flapped in the air, once, twice, then folded against Dettlaff’s back, towering high above their heads.

Completely without thinking, Geralt raked over and dragged his fingers over the leathery membrane of the wing, marvelling at the smooth texture and the arcane chill that pervaded it. Dettlaff made a sound one wouldn’t have been able to make with a human voice box, something of a purr, and Geralt thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever heard.

“Wasn’t aware you had these,” murmured Geralt.

“It’s a rare talent. Many do not possess the ability, and nor can they learn.” Dettlaff grabbed Geralt by the shoulder, directing him to Syanna’s body. “Pick her up, please.”

“You aren’t going to carry her?”

“No.” He gave his wings a flutter. “You carry her, and I will carry you. It’s the fastest and safest way.”

“Don’t know if I agree with that assessment,” said Geralt, but he picked up Syanna regardless, cradling her to his chest. He made an effort not to look at her face. “Could climb up myself.”

“I’m sure you could, but it would be a waste of both our time.” He didn’t give Geralt any warning before swooping him up into his arms and leaping into the air, which resulted in Geralt nearly dropping Syanna. Without the enhanced senses of a witcher, Geralt likely would have at least lost Dettlaff’s shirt, but he managed to coil an arm over it before the momentum of Dettlaff’s leap could slide it out of his grasp.

There was just as much climbing as there was flying, with Dettlaff using the leaves as launching pads the further up they got. Near the very top of the bean stalk, Dettlaff was nigh crawling up, digging his feet into the fleshy trunk of the stalk in order to heave them toward their destination. Progress slowed significantly during that last leg of the journey, and when they finally breached the clouds, Dettlaff stepped off into them, lowered Geralt to the ground, and proceeded to hunch over his knees to recover his strength.

“I forgot how very taxing that could be,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow and extending a hand to Geralt. “My outer coat, if you would. I’d prefer not to return to Beauclair without adequate covering.”

Geralt handed him his clothes, careful not to jostle Syanna too badly. Among the clouds, he could just barely make out the outline of a castle. Their exit, he hoped. Geralt was looking forward to breathing in air that didn’t smell faintly of sugar.

Dettlaff’s massive black wings receded into his back with some difficulty, shuffling about a bit before the skin closed over them. The only evidence that there had ever been wings there were thin, puckered scars on either shoulder blade. Given the size of the wings, Geralt would have expected them to be longer, and larger, but they were just barely visible and would probably fade completely, given a few hours.

Dettlaff shrugged on his coat and wrapped a hand around Geralt’s forearm, holding on tight as they advanced on the castle. Geralt could tell he wanted to be able to catch Geralt should the clouds fail to support their weight. 

Neither of them expected the giant that stepped out to block their path. They’d completely forgotten about him.

“Dettlaff.”

That was all he needed say for Dettlaff to deal with the giant with a mere slash or two of his talons. The creature was felled in seconds. Its legs buckled beneath it and it fell, landing hard on its stomach and taking its final few breaths as Geralt strode past. 

They didn’t find an exit door in the castle. They did, however, find a well, and Geralt failed to see where else they could go from here. He adjusted his grip on Syanna and peered down into its cloudy depths.

“Thoughts?” he asked, glancing at Dettlaff.

Dettlaff joined him in examining the nothingness within the well. “I think,” he said after a moment. “I shall catch you, should this well turn out to lead to land.”

“We could have another look-“

“We’ve searched every inch of this building. There is no other potential exit.”

Geralt twitched his lips. “You first, or me?”

“You, so I may catch you if the need arises.”

Unable to fit Syanna into the well bridal style, Geralt had to carry her over his shoulder, holding her to him with a forearm as he climbed over the edge of the well and dropped inside. For a long moment, his world was reduced to white and rushing air, his thoughts muffled by the great pressure of his descent.

He didn’t find himself in the play room. He instead, upon landing, found himself lying on top of a woman writhing and moaning beneath his weight, struggling to get out from under him, and she wasn’t the only one. He’d managed to kick over an elder gentleman and a child, both of whom were staring at him in shock. Or perhaps it was the woman in his arms that drew their curiosity.

Dettlaff came tumbling out after him, kicking him in the back during a rolling landing and stumbling into a gathering crowd, who skittered away from his presence.

Geralt looked up at the sky. Well past morning. “Shit.”

“That is an apt way to describe our situation.” Regis stepped out from among the crowd and helped Geralt to his feet. He frowned at the sight of Syanna. “I see things did not go as you had hoped.”

“On the contrary,” said Dettlaff, pressing past the crowd to join them. “The situation has been diffused. We may return to our lives.”

“Doubt I’m going to have one soon,” said Geralt, tipping his head in the direction of approaching guards. “Regis, Dettlaff. Going to need you two to leave. I’ll explain the situation with Syanna.”

“And what if the duchess decides to do away with your head?” asked Regis.

“Get over that hurdle when we reach it.” Geralt flapped a hand at them. “Go.”

With great reluctance, the two of them took their leave, merging into the growing crowd with ease. It took mere seconds for Geralt to find himself in shackles. He didn’t protest, allowing himself to be escorted to the ducal palace surrounded by a large throng of guards, among which was Damien, who had sweat on his brow and a taut expression on his face. Probably thinking about how much trouble he would be in once he unveiled who had told Geralt – or one of Geralt’s acquaintances, rather – of Syanna’s location.

* * *

The dungeons of Toussaint were considerably more pleasant than La Valette’s. There were few lashings doled out here and torture was a rare occurrence, one that had yet to be employed against Geralt despite the incriminating situation he had found himself in. He’d been questioned, of course, but Damien hadn’t been overly aggressive during that process. He was obviously angry, but just as much with himself as with Geralt.

Daily life wasn’t too bad; he got three square meals and slept on a mattress instead of the floor. He found it an easy lifestyle to adjust to, even with the threat of the gallows hanging over him. Growing up in Kaer Morhen had prepared him for the hostility and rigid routine of prison life. Not that Kaer Morhen had been a prison to him, but students there hadn’t been afforded a great deal of freedom and teachers _had_ acted rather like wardens.

He did have to deal with lascivious inmates commenting on his ‘assets’ every time he stepped within their vicinity, but that was nothing he couldn’t shrug off. Considering his last stint in a cell had ended in twelve lashings, several beatings, and the use of the heretic’s fork, he thought himself lucky indeed.

Twice he got into a fight. Once in the wash room, and once after an inmate had dared slap his ass. He bent their fingers back far enough to break every single one and not a single person fibbed on Geralt when the guard questioned the state of the man’s hand. He made sure to tell the guy that he wouldn’t have a hand to use should he try again.

Four weeks passed. A few days into his Fifth, he was told to follow a man across the prison courtyard, in the direction of the gallows. Geralt involuntarily tensed as they passed, and only relaxed once the rope was far out of sight.

“Witcher,” Damien greeted him.

Geralt braced himself for another round of questioning. He knew the drill by now, though he didn’t know if he could come up with any more variations of the sentence ‘I didn’t kill Syanna, the beast did’ at this point.

“You’re to be released,” Damien said, much to Geralt’s surprise. “I advised against it; we have not yet gotten anything substantial out of you, but what the duchess wishes is law.”

“Any idea what brought on this decision?” asked Geralt.

“You’ll see for yourself, shortly.” Damien folded his arms behind his back. “But I must warn you first, witcher: cause any more trouble and your next stay here will be permanent.”

“Didn’t even intend to cause trouble the first time,” said Geralt.

“And yet…” Damien trailed off, striding close enough for Geralt to make out the finer details of his moustache. “Remember my words, witcher. I leave you now to your rescuer.”

Geralt turned to watch him descend the stairs and saw Dandelion waiting for him at the top, leaning against the banister. He smiled wide at Geralt and gestured him closer.

“Dandelion?”

“The one and only.” When Geralt was close enough, he swept an arm around his shoulders and guided him into a brief hug. “For someone who spent four weeks in prison, you’re looking impeccably well. When I heard what had happened, I had expected one week, perhaps; Henrietta has always had a soft heart – but _four_.” He shook his head. “My, Henrietta was mad. I had to fight tooth and nail to get you out.”

“Ought to thank you, then. How exactly did you end up here?”

“Officially, I’m here visiting Anna Henrietta. We were close once, I’m sure you remember… and that came in handy while saving your hiney.” Dandelion beamed, clearly very pleased with himself. “Love and friendship overcomes all, Geralt. And good wine. _Very_ good wine. It certainly helps when judgements are to be made.” He winked, giving Geralt a heavy pat on the shoulder.

“How’d you manage? You were a persona non grata in Toussaint. Undesirable.”

“And now I’m not. Don’t dwell on it, Geralt.” He released Geralt at last, gesturing down the stairs. “What matters is you’re free. Oh, and you retain your vineyard. Unfortunately, you won’t receive any compensation for your efforts to catch the beast and save Beauclair, but I would say that’s a small price to pay for your life.”

“Thanks, Dandelion.” Geralt peered out at Toussaint’s bright blue sky and sunny fields. Somehow, the prison had managed to be perpetually chilly. The first – no, the  _second_ thing he would do upon returning to Corvo Bianco was lie down on the sun-warmed bench at the side of his house and nap. The _first_ thing he would do was bathe.

“Always happy to help,” said Dandelion, ushering him toward his salvation. “Now, get out of here. I think mister dark and gloomy will start to get anxious if you dawdle too long. He looked the type.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow over his shoulder. “Dettlaff?”

“That’s his name? Well, be sure to assure him you’re alright. He looks like he hasn’t slept since you got incarcerated.”

“Probably hasn’t,” said Geralt before stepping out of sight. A guard guided him to the exit, though Geralt knew perfectly well where it was, having cast wanting glances at it whenever he was in the courtyard. They returned his clothes to him, which he pulled on in the privacy of the requisition chamber. He was made to carry out the rest of his belongings in a bag, for safety reasons. He didn’t have to walk far up the bridge before spotting Dettlaff and Regis standing in waiting for him. Dettlaff looked as haggard as Dandelion had suggested he would.

He greeted them with a smile. “I’d tell you to lose the grin, Regis, but it looks like Dettlaff needs some sunny disposition in his life.”

Regis stepped up and grasped his forearm, giving it a firm shake. “I could not help myself even if I could. It is just such a pleasure to see you free, Geralt.”

“It’s good to see you too, my vampiric friend.”

“Geralt,” said Dettlaff, his voice soft. Geralt glanced over at him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He released Regis to extend Dettlaff the same arm. Instead of giving it a shake, Dettlaff used it to reel him in and bring their chests together, winding his free arm around Geralt’s back and giving him a hearty squeeze.

“Oh, alright,” breathed Geralt, at a loss for what else to say. He managed to pat Dettlaff’s shoulder with the hand trapped between their bodies.

“For what happened, I apologise, deeply.” Dettlaff’s unshaven jaw scratched along Geralt’s neck. “I did not anticipate this outcome.”

“He wanted to rescue you the day it happened,” said Regis, busying his hands with the strap of his bag. He wasn’t quite looking at them, giving them some degree of privacy. “Fortunately, I managed to talk him down, but he has been fretting since.”

“I can see that,” said Geralt. He gently dislodged Dettlaff and rested his hands on Dettlaff’s shoulders, preventing him from surging in for another hug. As much as he enjoyed hugs, Dettlaff wasn’t smelling particularly inviting right now. “Looks like we both need a bath and shave. Regis?”

“I’d be happy to extend my services,” said Regis with a bow.

“Thanks.” He nodded his gratitude. “You can do it at Corvo Bianco. Need to make sure Basil hasn’t had an aneurysm in my absence while we’re at it.”

“There is something I had hoped to talk with you about,” began Regis, looking between him and Dettlaff. “But it can be left until later. A bath and shave would do both of you good.”

With some reluctance, Dettlaff parted their bodies, sliding his hand into Geralt’s and briefly linking their fingers before withdrawing. Geralt hadn’t been certain about Dettlaff’s intentions prior to his incarceration, but he was sure of what Dettlaff wanted from him now. 

Upon arriving at Corvo Bianco, Basil was so relieved to see him alive and well that he very nearly tripped down the steps in his enthusiasm to greet Geralt. After making a mental note to give the poor, overwrought man some kind of compensation for thinking his new master was about to be beheaded and his residence requisitioned by the duchess, Geralt guided Dettlaff and Regis into a quiet corner of his house and retrieved the tools necessary for a shave.

It felt good to be out of the prison rags. He kept his underwear on so to not give Regis an eyeful, but he fully intended to remove those too, shortly.

Regis was a skilled enough barber that it didn’t take him long to finish both of them. While Dettlaff was being finished off, Geralt dragged the tub out from its corner and steadily filled it with water warmed with igni. Regis had left to check the state of Geralt’s laboratory by the time he eased himself into the steaming water with a groan. Dettlaff watched him descend into the water, hesitating.

“May I?” he asked after a moment.

Geralt gestured to the opposite side of the tub. It wasn’t very big. The two of them would barely fit, but that was fine by Geralt. He would enjoy the proximity. The physical contact he’d had in prison wasn’t of the enjoyable variety, so he was eager for some intimacy.

Removing his final layers of clothing, Dettlaff lowered himself into the water and seated himself between Geralt’s legs. He drew a hand up through Geralt’s hair and displayed a soft, serene smile that Geralt hadn’t had the pleasure to see on him before. Geralt leaned into his touch, skating his own hands down Dettlaff’s chest, getting a feel of the smooth skin and well-defined muscle.

“How’s this ‘mate’ thing work, then?” he asked, gliding a thumb over one of Dettlaff’s nipples and grinning appreciatively when Dettlaff drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s quite simple.” Dettlaff slipped his fingers to the nape of Geralt’s neck and drew him in, speaking against the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I court you, which I am currently doing. With success, it seems.” His lips moved to Geralt’s chin, then his throat. “This is followed by consummation, nesting… assuming you accept my proposition, of course.”

“Me being naked in a tub with you isn’t answer enough?”

“I’d prefer to hear it. After Syanna, I… I desire the certainty.”

“Understandable.” He shifted, hooking his thighs over Dettlaff’s legs and his arms over Dettlaff’s shoulders and making himself comfortable. “Consider it accepted. Now, about that consummation…”

“In time, Geralt.” Dettlaff dropped his hands beneath the water, dragging his palms up Geralt’s thighs, squeezing at the soft flesh there. “We will take this slow.”

“This is slow?” asked Geralt while Dettlaff pulled him closer.

“Impeccably.”

His nails grazed Geralt’s thigh as he coiled a hand around both their cocks, sliding them together. The water didn’t seem to trouble his movements at all. He moved smoothly and without hurry, twitching his hips up into each upward stroke, his bared teeth jostling against Geralt’s throat.

It was impossible not to unwind under such skilled hands. While Dettlaff worked, Geralt absentmindedly dragged his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. His other hand drew pink lines into Dettlaff’s shoulder each time their cocks perfectly aligned during a stroke.

“Geralt.” Dettlaff’s voice was a growl against his neck. “I’d like you to say you are mine.”

Geralt swallowed and shivered with arousal. “Already said I accept.”

“No.” A squeeze, hard enough to make Geralt’s legs twitch. He choked on a gasp. “Say you are mine. I need to hear it.”

Geralt peeled open his eyes to look down at Dettlaff, his fingers drifting to the point of an ear. The lines in his face were deep and clustered. “I’m no Rhena, Dettlaff,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

White irises flicked up to him. “Nonetheless, I want to hear it.” Another hard squeeze. “Say it. Please.”

Geralt practically choked out his answer: “I’m yours.”

That spurred Dettlaff into pulling roughly at their arousals and jerking his hips, growling ferociously against Geralt’s neck, his teeth gliding over the wet skin and a thin black tongue licking away droplets of sweat and water. He did not bite, though by the way he was panting and growling and baring his teeth, Geralt gathered that he wanted to.

Perhaps slow for vampires meant abstaining from bloodshed. Perhaps Dettlaff intended to bite him at some point in the near future. Perhaps while he was buried inside Geralt to the hilt, holding him to the mattress, a hand knotted around his hair…

He finished with a shout, his cock twitching in Dettlaff’s grip, his body shuddering convulsively and his nails digging into the flesh of Dettlaff’s back, drawing pink welts into his pale skin. Dettlaff followed shortly after, moaning into Geralt’s ear in a way that would have rendered him hard again had he not just finished.

Only when the water began to cool did they leave the tub. They retired to Geralt’s bedroom, where Geralt got some much-needed rest and Dettlaff curled up against his back, embraced him as he slumbered. 

* * *

Pursing the final intended victim, at Regis’ insistence, uncovered a name no one had expected: Anna Henrietta.

There seemed little point in informing Henrietta of her sister intentions now, long after Syanna had been buried, but it did lighten the burden of guilt on Geralt to know his failure to prevent Syanna’s death potentially saved Henrietta’s life. With the job at its conclusion, Geralt had no issue hanging up his swords and beginning a sentry retirement in Corvo Bianco.

His days in Toussaint were warm and peaceful, just as warm and peaceful as they had been the first time Geralt had visited. He’d had to be nigh dragged away, when last he’d been there… this time, one would have to remove his limbs in order to get him to move. He had no intention of returning to the path. Never. He was done working as a hired killer. The only monsters he had to deal with now were Regis and his somewhat sulky, broody beau, who nonetheless managed to be one of the best things that had happened to Geralt since he and Yennefer had parted ways.

(Considering Geralt too was a sulky, broody individual, they were very compatible in that regard and would sulk and brood together when the mood suited, though neither of them acknowledged their tendency to do this.)

It took Dettlaff a little while to get acclimated to living among other humans, which was inevitable when working on a vineyard, but he adjusted, slowly but gradually, and became quite well liked by Geralt’s employees. He even became a good friend of Dandelion, who would engage him constantly in chatter about writing and poetry. Geralt found out during one lazy evening that Dandelion had asked Dettlaff to do illustrations for his book, and Dettlaff had accepted.

The wound Syanna had left on Dettlaff was still healing. He had his moments of mistrust and doubt, particularly regarding his relationship with Geralt, but Geralt was always able to reassure him if he got scared or angry. Being a former witcher, and having had more relationship experience than any of his comrades, there was really no other human being on earth better suited to courting a vampire.

Within time, the wound would heal and fade away, and Geralt intended to accompany Dettlaff on every step of that process.


End file.
